


Spring — 2019

by trash_bat



Series: Years and Years [6]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Nathan Barley (TV) RPF
Genre: Choking, Complicated Relationships, Deepthroating, Emotions, Infidelity, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: Back in the office, for old time's sake.
Relationships: Charlie Brooker/Chris Morris
Series: Years and Years [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1436950
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Spring — 2019

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).

He gets interviewed a lot nowadays. Proper interviews on morning radio and nighttime telly. Public Q&As that punters pay real, actual money for, in order to listen to him natter on about process. In the past the presenters were waiting for the real celebrities to breeze past whereas now they're equally likely thrust a microphone in his face to breathlessly ask how_ Charlie Brooker the man behind Netflix's hit dystopian drama Black Mirror has his finger on the pulse of the future_.

Charlie gives his pat answers about being a worrier, and how he doesn’t have, like, privileged insight into the future, because he’s not _actually_ a Cassandra — really, he only wants to entertain people — and then people take his picture, ask for his autograph, and on occasion, when they’re American, try to hug him.

His whole thing has always been to trash-talk himself before anybody else can, but he finds that he hardly has the energy these days. The kids provide him with ample opportunity to feel like he’s failing at every turn, and they take up so much space in his head that he hardly has room left to berate himself. In a way that’s a relief.

They go out for drinks, celebrate adult birthdays with wine and childrens’ with lemonade and cake that is only really a vehicle for icing. They play in the back garden, and push the kids on swings, and see the parents, see the in-laws, round up baby sitters, deal with fevers, read bedtime stories, and wake up, at least he does, in the middle of the night to check that they’re all still there, still asleep, and haven’t been Samantha Mulder’ed away.

The worries ebb and flow, and he works too much, and sleeps too little, and misses deadlines, and goes out with their friends who are couples. At the end of the meal someone will say _we could be really naughty_ the way in the early 90s someone would suggest dropping MDMA right before he started a shift at the games shop, or later that night, when the drugs had kicked in, casually offer up the idea that everyone get their kit off and have sex in various configurations until dawn — then they might get a cheese plate to split four, six, eight ways.

Things are better for him despite the country going to political shit and the world strapping on its downhill skis to follow suit. Yeah, he's on and off planes more often than he’d like, because Americans don’t actually seem to believe that people exist unless they’re physically present in California, and he could live without the jet lag and the endless handshakes and the pretty assistants in pencil skirts being paraded in front of him as a reminder that all suits are massive knobs until he and Annabel can piss off for Mexican food and then retire to their separate hotel rooms to Skype their partners, make goofy faces at their kids, and she’ll do some yoga and he’ll hit the fitness center like the person he is now, who needs a solid hour of cardio every day or he’ll go a bit _Network_ on everyone.

Still. It's a living. 

\---

_Charlie!_ a voice booms, and Charlie practically jumps out of his skin. Who’s recognized him, who’s drawn attention? 

Oh shit. 

Oh. 

Shit. 

Chris is coming towards him, long arms extended, and _how_ is he so preposterously gangly, and tall. How, too, does he still look — save a few threads of gray, maybe a couple of new lines around his mouth and crevasses about the chin — the same as he did twenty-odd years ago? 

_We were about to have lunch._ He scans Charlie’s table — water glass, single, sad, fibre-rich muffin, phone getting juiced up with the earbuds laid off to the side — and frowns at the sight. _Care to join us?_

Here’s what goes through Charlie’s head. 

_Christ, it’s good to see you again._

_Not with him, I won’t._

_ Jesus, your hands. _

_ No, better go. Why make things awkward?_

_ More awkward. _

_ No, really, your fucking hands. _

_ Oh thank God, I’ve got charge again. _

The phone vibrates against the table like an irritated bee. Messages rapid fire onto the screen. 

_ HELLO YOU TOSSER CALL ME BACK _

_ Mum’s coming round for dinner. _

He lunges for the phone like it’s the last boat off the Titanic. 

_Maybe another time_ he says, and then, even though it’s a bit stupid, clearly arrogant, _Annabel says I’m needed back at the office._

_Hope you’ve got proper trousers, mate_ Keyvan smiles, and it seems good-natured, but Charlie is dizzy, annoyed with himself for — for what? jealousy? — and instead says, dumb as anything _I’ve got things there to change into._

_Good call_ Keyvan says, and gives a weird little mock-salute that makes Charlie’s blood boil. 

Chris folds his hand over the phone, atop Charlie’s own. His fingertips land right where Charlie’s shirtsleeve would hit, if he were wearing a proper shirt and not, God fucking help him, an ancient sweat-stained t-shirt with recalcitrant kiddie vomit on it somewhere. 

_It’s good to see you_ Chris says, and his eyes are so dark, and warm that Charlie wrenches his hand away and bolts for the door before he can register his own mouth saying goodbye. 

\---

_You’re working with Chris_ Charlie had said, many years back. Riz had looked at him quizzically. 

_No, I’m not_ he’d said, with his voice measured and slow, like he thought Charlie an idiot. _We’re just meeting up is all. I introduced him to my mates._

_Fuck you_ he’d wanted to shout at the time. Fuck you and your meetings and your _mates_. I know what he’s after, even if you’re too stupid to see it. Oh, it’ll start out easy breezy enough. He’ll ask you for coffee, then take you out to lunch, and before you know it you’ll find yourself doing things you’d never thought you’d have done in a million years. 

When he’d been the one having meeting with Chris — he hadn’t introduced him to any of his mates, because Charlie didn’t really have mates — then they’d traipse all over Soho. Chris liked his routine: liked his ten o’clock coffee with milk and his three o’clock coffee without. He liked to have lunch somewhere they could sit down, and much to Charlie’s bemused horror, he was happiest when outdoors, in the sunshine. He’d want to walk around and look at people, and bounce ideas off one another, and Charlie’s poor smoker’s lungs would struggle to keep up, with his long, lean legs that contrived, somehow, to move at a pace twice Charlie’s own. 

He had dragged chairs up to the roof of the building, chairs that looked like they’d been salvaged from a particularly nasty skip, and he’d always ask if Charlie minded the tape recorder being on, and Charlie always said no, because it meant he wouldn’t have to take notes, and Chris wouldn’t either, and he liked it, in a way he wasn’t entirely certain was reciprocated, when Chris would spend a whole afternoon meeting without once taking his eyes off Charlie.

\---

He starts doing a really ludicrous thing which is to take the tube three, four, five stops away from his office in the opposite direction, as if by cutting a wide swath across London he can contrive to run into Chris. Accidentally, mind. 

He has absolutely no reason to. His office is only a couple of miles. Walkable on a good day, runnable on a great one. And yet. 

What was it people did nowadays, when they wanted to chat someone up in the daytime? Did people have drinks, still? Bunk off work to go to the pub in the afternoon? 

\---

The bookstore. Before they’d done the remodel. Still massive, entirely possible to get lost in the maze of the place. 

Before the internet there were shops. Fewer branches of international chains: chemists, cafés, banks. Shops had things in them that a person might wish to purchase. Lubricant, say, the collected poems of WH Auden, nail clippers, a cockring. Where they showed their shortcomings was in having to speak to another person, whether that was to ask where the thing they were after was, if it was something they carried, and then the transaction at the till, when Charlie could never really seem to figure out if it was all right to make small talk. In those kind of places? 

Chris did not care. He absolutely did not care whether or not Charlie was uncomfortable. To tell it plain, it rather seemed like the point. 

_ How long is safe to keep this on for? _ he asked. 

_ And what will happen if it’s longer than that? _

_ No, he’s never mentioned having a latex allergy up until now. But perhaps we had better discuss the alternatives, just in case. Come along, Charlie. _

_\---_

_Charlie?_ Annabel raps her Sharpie against the conference table. _You still with us?_

The room comes back into focus only for him to find that five sets of eyes are trained upon him, waiting for him to provide an answer to a question… about typefaces? .... set dressing? ...casting notes? 

_The script edits_ someone, not Annabel, helpfully provides. _Are we good to send this version out finally?_

_Erm_ he supplies, helpfully. 

He’d like to tinker with it more. That first scene between Danny and Karl still feels off, and with an afternoon to himself, kids with his mother-in-law, noise cancelling headphones on, pot of sencha at the ready, he could get it finished. 

Annabel’s mouth is set in a hard line that Charlie knows all too well. The second they’re alone she’s going to yell. He swings his feet down from the conference table and pulls on the hem of his suit jacket. 

_Give me until the end of the week_ he says, and Annabel groans into her hands. 

_ Fuck’s sake, Charlie — _

_Thirty-six hours_ he says to her, to the table of people looking at him intent and anxious. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to let him be in charge? _It’s nearly there. _

She dismisses everyone else to various tasks and they scuttle away like beetles. He’s got his phone in his hand, the usual shit taking up mental bandwidth, yes he can go to the shops, yes he wants an upgrade for his flight next week, because he’s a git, is what he is, and once he’s dealt with the alerts and shoved his phone back into his pocket, she’s scrutinizing him in a way that makes his stomach turn. 

She raps the Sharpie against her clipboard and squints in his direction. _You’re being weird._

What’s he meant to tell her? _I can't seem to stop looking for trouble. Chris saw my legs and he looked at me funny. _

_I’m being me, Annabel. Give it a day, yeah? It'll be the better for it. _

Remember when we first met and I was stroppy for what seemed like no reason? Riz was meeting with him all the fucking time. 

She gives him another hard stare. Fair play to her. She's never been one to swallow his bullshit. _Fine_ she concedes at last, and stabs the table with her finger. _Tomorrow afternoon, close of business._

_Corporate nonsense_ he begins, and she stabs the table again. 

_Clock’s ticking, little monkey_ she says _don’t see why you want to waste your time with a rant._

He does go home, for a bit. He plays with the boys, and transfers the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and gathers up his laptop and charging cables, his noise-cancelling headphones, his airpods, his batteries, his backup batteries, his earplugs in case the backup batteries fail —

Thing is, it’s not as if he doesn’t know exactly where he could locate Chris, should he wish to. Charlie knows where he’ll be of an afternoon — he likes to go out for lunch, sat at a table near the front, so he can watch people come in and out through the door — watch the couples where one party marches directly up to the counter and then stands there, impatient, unable to order until the other has joined them, because they’re paying together, Chris would point out, and so she feels she has to wait for him, or the other way round. 

Charlie has every confidence that he could stroll right back and he’d find Chris in exactly the same places, doing exactly the same things. Hell, if he looked hard enough, he could probably even locate the key that Chris’d had made, however many years ago, so that Charlie could come and go as he liked. 

He digs his fingers into his palms. Who’s Chris given a key to lately?

\---

  
  
He finds him in the bookstore's nonfiction section. Modern history, information warfare. 

_They got rid of the basement_ Chris sighs. _There's a place down the road that still manages to stay open, though for how long, I don't know. _

Charlie settles his his weight onto his left foot and, for some reason, puts his hands in his back pockets and takes a step back. This was a bloody awful idea. Wasn't it? Isn't it? 

Someone should have stopped him. That someone should have been himself. Who lets him do these things? 

Chris looks at him over his reading glasses and closes the book on his finger. _Everything can be got online now. I suppose that's the new way of things. _

_Oh?_ Charlie hears himself say, like he hasn't been thinking about all those seedy shops, all those basements. It feels weird to remember it out of context this way. Normally it's when the insomnia hits that he revisits that stuff. Insomnia. Sure. 

Chris pulls his glasses off with one hand and rubs the back of it across his eyes. 

Charlie thinks, for a brief and dizzy second, what it would be like to have Chris's fingers on his throat. Just for a moment. You know. For old time's sake. 

This was a terrible idea. He has a script to finish. He has shit to do. In not that many hours Annabel is going to start texting him every twenty minutes until he calls her, screams down the phone, and then in a fit of cold sweat, panic, and a couple of Diet Cokes — no, he shouldn’t, yes he hides them in his desk drawer, the same way he once hid skin mags and Rizlas, although, shit, he’s paying the mortgage, if he wants to drink a cola in his own office by daylight then by fucking God he will….

_It’s better to ask questions_ Chris says, like this is a thing any fucking sane person would do, when online reviews are a thing, and then as if he’s anticipated Charlie’s thoughts — eerie, how he’s always managed to do that, but then Chris always was one, two, ten steps ahead — tuts and says, _People lie when you can’t get them face to face. That’s what I’ve always found, at least. _

Chris glances at his watch then claps Charlie on the shoulder. _Dinner to get to_ he says. _Another time, perhaps. _

_Right_ Charlie says. Chris isn’t going to take him on a sordid errand to barrage the staff with polite questions about ball gags or whatever it was he was contemplating buying. What an absolute relief.

\---

He ends up at a wine bar. Like an absolute prick. 

Before going in he’d called home, and _yes_, everyone was fine, and _no_, they hadn’t been too terrible at dinner, and _yes_, they’d got Nando’s because it was almost the weekend, and he could get his arse back home and do meal prep himself if he had a problem with it. 

She sends him off with the admonishment to eat a green thing, and a small, soothing pat to his ego, where she reminds him that yes, he’d managed to fool everyone up until this point, but maybe, just very possibly, he could have progressed past the point where he needed to trick people anymore? Could that be possible? 

He rang off, fully aware that people were pretending to look at the menu posted in the front window, but really they had absolutely no intention of going in. They were eavesdropping on him. 

When he gets back home it’s late. His eyes itch, he’s slightly tipsy, acidic from the red, and the script? Isn’t getting any closer to being done. Bugger all. 

What he should do is take a shower. Go sit at the dining room table. Burn a candle. Work on the goddamn thing. Power through one night and get his team something worth picking to bits. 

What he does do is go looking for fucking trouble. 

There's YouTube rabbit holes to fall down, and then he rips up his office in the hopes that maybe he will locate that key after all. Instead he ends up buried under piles of ephemera that he really should scan and then chuck out. 

How was dinner? 

The reply is quick despite the hour. 

_ Dinner was sensational. _

What did you have? 

_ Fluke sashimi. _ _Seaweed salad. Charred octopus. _

No pudding?

Why is he doing this why is he doing this _ why is he doing this_. 

_ It didn’t appeal_. 

Charlie reaches for his diet Coke. The impulse to write him immediately to say —_ fuck, can you just do whatever it is you do to me, with me, and let me have my life back again? — _but Charlie: responsible, adult, grown-up, well-paid, moderately admired, award-winning, family man Charlie, writes _— _

I have a deadline.

_What time?_

Charlie takes another swig of his soda. 

Annabel says the end of the business day. Tomorrow. 

Without noticing it, he’s been holding his breath while he waits for the little dots to tell him that Chris was composing an answer. 

_ Come round after. _

_\---_

_Oh shit_ Charlie says, when he looks in the bag. 

_Do you want to use it now?_ Chris asks, mild and pleasant. _Or we can go out, if you'd prefer. We don't have to stay here. _

_ No _Charlie snaps, because even if he weren’t a busy, exhausted, overtaxed, overworked, fuck-starved parent, even then he can't imagine them anywhere but in this room, where it always seems to end up. 

Chris lets Charlie take care of it himself, but that's hardly new. His hands are steady though his mouth is dry. Charlie slides his bare feet up onto the coffee table, bracing himself as Chris watches from over his shoulder. 

Chris runs a hand down Charlie’s bare chest once he's sat back down on the sofa. It lands down by his stomach, and then folds across his belly. For an awful instant it seems like he might projectile vomit across the room. But no. No, the queasy feeling rises only to be replaced by excitement. How good, how absolutely right it feels to have Chris remind him what a sick little fuck he is. 

_ Are you full? _ Chris asks softly, and Charlie nods his assent. _ Should I take you downstairs like this? Walk you up and down the street with a hand on your back? _

Charlie gasps, ragged and thick like he's still on three packs a day. _Fuck_. He can see it playing out behind his closed eyes, imagine the scene in vicious, horrible technicolor, can feel the soft night air on his face, can see how he’d look in dim sodium lights out there on the street. 

Charlie whispers _ don’t._ He wouldn’t. Jesus, would he? 

_Do you want me to turn it on?_ Chris asks, and God he sounds so dangerous. 

Charlie nods furiously, even though he knows, he fucking knows it isn’t good enough. _Yes_ he whispers and even that is as loud as a shout in this quiet, dark little room. 

The thing quivers, at first minutely and then with a hard, insistent buzz that sets his teeth on edge, fast enough to make tears stream from the outer corner of his eyes. It presses against his insides _—_ faster, then slower _—_ and it’s awful how close it is, close enough to fucking touch but he can't quite get there…when all at once the vibrations cease. The immanent spillover recedes. Charlie's orgasm evaporates like it was never there, except that he's panting, and harder than he's been in about a fucking decade. 

_Not yet_ Chris says, and after he’s said it once Charlie loses track of exactly how many more times he says it. 

He squeezes his legs shut without even thinking, but Chris is a viper, a dart of his hand, a slap on each inner thigh _—_ tender, it smarts when he does it — and he’s too busy trying not to cry out to notice that he's whining, high in the back of his throat. He can’t see Chris, like this, but he can feel the warm weight of his hand on Charlie’s stomach, secure in the knowledge that his cock is _right there_, over Charlie’s shoulder, and it's Charlie affecting Chris. Him. he moves his hand like he might touch but Chris bats it away, tugging on his pinky finger until Charlie’s hand is resting beneath his own right where Charlie’s chest meets his throat. 

_Do it_ Charlie whispers, his back arching up involuntarily. Chris is thoughtful enough to oblige him. 

He does touch Charlie, in the end. A few firm, self-assured strokes to set him off, and then he lets go abruptly, leaving him to jerk and spit against the empty air. 

_Looks like you needed that_ Chris remarks.

Bleary from his orgasm, Charlie looks down. He's made a fucking mess. Come splashed all across his stomach, a pinkish spot, one on each thigh, where Chris had smacked him, and still rubbing his backside against the sofa cushions, despite being overstimulated, finished. Emptied. 

_ Never enough for you _ Chris says, because he can see Charlie looking. He tousles Charlie’s hair. It sparks something in him more complicated than the simple release of chemicals and dopamine. 

A comeback dies in his throat. Chris sounds dismissive, sure, but if he twists his head back _—_ with ease, like his yoga teacher taught him, the better to save his old man neck _—_ the front of his trousers is distended by a large bulge. He licks his lips. Chris’s hand extends to its full width before his fingers tighten against Charlie’s scalp, his nails scratching against the skin beneath his thinning hair, but otherwise he remains perfectly still. His breath rattles in his ears. 

Tentatively, he lifts up his own hand. It’s a weird angle, kind of almost behind his back, and it’s marginally uncomfortable. Chris doesn’t make a move to stop him and Charlie doesn’t dare say a word. To call Chris’s attention to anything is to invite the possibility that it’ll be revoked. And sure, he’s got his already. Charlie’s a lot of things, but selfish isn’t one of them. Even in his addled state he wants to pay Chris back. To return the favour. It only seems equitable. 

_Let me_ he thinks but keeps silent about it. The back of Charlie’s hand brushes down the front of Chris’s cords, light as anything. He gathers his courage to look up, twisting over his shoulder to see Chris stood there, sturdy and confident as ever and, Charlie is thrilled to recognize, warmth, no _—_ _heat_ in his expression. His lips are parted, his eyes very dark as Charlie rummages behind him to try and get a grip on things. 

Chris gasps and shit, Charlie can’t recall hearing him ever make _ that _ sound before. 

He shuts his eyes, fumbles in the darkness of his own making for Chris’s zip. There’s no way he can get hard again so soon. Even the one orgasm will’ve knocked him sideways for two days, such is aging, but Charlie’s arousal isn’t really in his dick right now. 

It’s in the reassuring touch of Chris’s fingers against his scalp, the bite into his own bottom lip as he feels the button pop open, the zipper slide down. It’s in the back of his hand as he reaches behind him to slide it into that newly opened space, swooping into his stomach as he feels how hard Chris is, the skin soft between his grasping fingers, _ because of me_, he thinks, dizzily, greedily, _ because of me_. 

_ Oh, Charlie _Chris says, the words whistling on his breath. It’s difficult to see his cock from this angle but Charlie knows it nonetheless. He’d know it in the dark, in his sleep. In a fucking coma. Knows where each vein surfaces when it’s hard, knows how the color changes from pink at the tip to purple right below the head, knows where it flares and how it’ll feel, blood-hot, huge, in his hand, which always strikes Charlie as being small by comparison. 

_ Chris _ he finally allows himself to say. _Yes, Chris _. 

_ Yes _ Chris repeats back to him. He’s fitting his big hand atop Charlie’s head again, his fingertips tightening like a vise. _ Shit. Charlie —_

_ I did that. I made you stupid, too. How many times in your entire life have you been at a loss for words? _

Charlie smirks but he makes sure to keep it inside his own head. A smile would only interfere because his mouth is too busy trying to catch the head of Chris’s cock as it slides past his lips and comes to rest, hot, against his right cheek. 

An overwhelming impulse to turn around and kneel on the sofa, to let Chris hold onto the back of his head and use him however he fancies. The thought drives a moan up out of him, a moan that begins at the head of Chris’s dick and ends in a sweaty muffled sound smushed up against his balls. 

For a while Chris moves like that, his hand gentle against Charlie's eager throat, thumb stroking comfortingly against the hinge of his jaw. _Patience _he reminds himself _patience_. Chris likes to see things through, and he's reassured by the noises that Chris is making that he’s nearly as excited as Charlie feels. 

His arse clenches up around the toy. Shut off, but making its presence known nevertheless. He wonders if Chris plans to turn it back on. To overstimulate him until his cock leaks out in a milky puddle all over the place. 

Gingerly, cautiously, Charlie shifts himself so he’s angled more to the left. He lifts his right hand up to catch Chris's balls as they swing up against his chin, an urgency in the movement, a sudden, overwhelming need to lap at them from beneath while Chris strokes himself off onto Charlie's naked, dirty chest. 

_ You've come already. You shouldn't need this. Shouldn't want it. _

Charlie's hands drift upwards. Is he meant to touch or would Chris prefer he restrain himself? 

He gets a few licks in, mostly when Chris's cock catches on his cheek as he ruts against his face, the salt-sting taste ramping up his frenzy and then, oh God, fuck, it’s finally fucking happening — the firm head of Chris’s cock is fed into his waiting, hungry mouth. 

Charlie shivers. 

Because his head’s twisted to the side, his throat’s closed off, yet when Charlie allows his eyes to focus, he notices that Chris doesn’t seem particularly bothered. He seems to like it, puts his hand on Charlie’s head and twists him even further to the left. Charlie gasps as best he can, trying to get a breath in through his teeth, as Chris slides into the space between his teeth and his cheek. He hums in pleasure; to feel this insignificant and yet useful. Chris’s dick twitches. His tongue moves quickly to catch what comes out: thin, more bitter than sweet. 

Chris pulls out. And fuck. Charlie can’t do anything but let him, unable even so much as to tighten his lips to keep his cock in a little longer, and Charlie tilts his head as best he can to look up at him. 

Chris’s eyes have gone almost entirely black, a look of intense concentration on his face. Charlie pulls a dry breath into his chest, lifts his hand to touch once more. 

Chris walks himself over so that he’s at more of an angle, his dick, shiny and red, bobs a few inches above Charlie’s face. Without even being told he knows what to do. His arse is chafed, sore from overstimulation. His come is drying on his stomach, his thighs itch from where's he's been smacked, but all he cares about is doing this one thing right. He shifts on the sofa and lays his head against the back of it so that Chris is above him, and with his hand angles the cock into his mouth _—_ still awkward, not perfect by any means, but it’s sliding full and fat across his tongue now, the taste tangy, sharp. 

He struggles to keep his eyes open to enjoy the reactions now that he can hollow his cheeks properly, tighten the damp circle of his mouth, but his smugness fades quickly as Chris’s hand comes to cover his whole face. His vision is blurred by a finger in his sightline and then Chris pins him against the back of the sofa and he has to close his eyes as a pathetic moan warbles out of his mouth. 

_Use me_ he thinks crazily to himself _use me like a toy. _

Thinking about toys he remembers that he’s still got one up inside himself. No fucking way can he get hard, but it’s almost better like this, without his own arousal to confuse the issue. 

Both hands now, one pinning his head to the sofa, the other stroking comfortingly against his pressure point, where his ear meets his neck. It’s affectionate, he realises with a sharp stab. Chris cares about him beyond what entertainment his self-abasement can provide. 

His lips feel baggy, almost numb, but he still manages, against all odds, to make his mouth into a tight O for Chris to pass through over and over again. 

_Oh_, too, is the sound Chris makes over and over as he fucks Charlie’s warm, willing mouth. 

He can’t see a fucking thing. It should set off his claustrophobia; should terrify him yet the pleasure of having his mouth filled outweighs even that. Why it is that his mind goes blank and calm when his mouth is full is something he hasn’t given much direct thought to, but he’s never found anything like it. Not Ambien, Xanax; not whisky or vodka; not coffee, weed or cigarettes; not television. Music, maybe, but only then if he’s running, and only really if he’s in a zone. 

Being held down and having his mouth fucked, and Chris is really at it now, his whole hand mashing Charlie’s face into the sofa, spit bubbling up from his lips to mix with the sweat from his cheeks, the drips from his nose, the wet dampness from his eyes, and every time Chris thrusts it's forceful enough to jostle his lower half. His head stays still, pinned in place. 

It’s good, it’s so _fucking_ good. 

It was good to come here and it was good to come, hard, and it was good to feel, for a little while, like someone else could be in control, like he wasn’t going to have to be responsible or make any fucking decisions or even fucking say a single goddamn thing 

Chris’s hand holds him still, his own hips shifting, restless, against the worn sofa cushions, his own hands obediently tucked underneath his thighs. 

Chris withdraws. His mouth tingles, his tongue feels cold without the damp heat blocking it up any longer. He's breathing heavily, his cock held loosely in one massive fist.

_ Come on my face. Come in my mouth. Come in my hair. Come in your own hand. I don't care I don't care I don't care. _

Chris is looking down at Charlie like he's trying to reach a decision.

The stab of pride again. It's power, is what it is. Charlie's got a card or two left to play. 

_ D’you want to fuck my mouth. _He's wheezy when he speaks._ Because I really didn't want you to stop. _

Blood rushes back into his head as he shifts and hangs his head off the side of the sofa. His neck feels the loosest it’s been in months. Chris cups a hand around his chin. To keep him level or, he thinks shamefully, to keep his mouth tight from where he's lost all feeling in it. All he can manage is to keep himself from falling onto the floor and, when he remembers to, use his feet to push himself back and forth. Chris grunts, and there are a few seconds where everything is red and confusing before he remembers why he’s there, and what he came there to do. 

_You do that so well_ Chris says and he does indeed sound pleased. Winded. He sounds broken too. He did that. He made him sound like that. 

His hands rise up as if to touch. It’s instinct to want to touch; to brace himself on Chris’s hips, to use his own hands to elongate the pleasure, to heighten the sensations. At one point he worries he might sneeze. With each deep thrust Chris’s pubic hair tickles his nostrils. 

_It’s a pleasure to watch you. _

Charlie moans around his mouthful and forces his eyes shut as it starts, and spurts, and twitches enthusiastically against his lapping tongue. He's sucking still when Chris pushes him away, overstimulated and softening. 

_ You did earn it _ he says. His colour’s high, the red bits of his face and mouth brighter than normal. His breath rattles in his chest. _ Top marks, Charlie. _

_Thank you _Charlie says in response, and thoroughly means it. 

Then Chris goes off to wash his hands, and pull on his own jacket, and locate his keys in order to walk Charlie down to the ground floor and escort him to the taxi rank. 

_I can get an Uber_ Charlie is saying, but he knows Chris will insist on doing an old-fashioned, gentlemanly thing. 

_Don’t wait so long next time_ Chris says, as he tucks Charlie up in the back of the cab. His curls are mussed at the back and Charlie feels a pang. _You nearly had my eye out._

_I won’t_ Charlie says to the adverts playing in the back of the passenger seat


End file.
